


in fair verona

by Marianne_Dashwood



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: AND THERES ONLY ONE BED, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Background Gertrude Robinson/Agnes Montegue, Fluff, Gratiutious Shakespere References, Ice Cream, M/M, Magnus Writers Valentine Exchange, Mutual Pining, No Angst, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Or pre-canon if you prefer?, Sharing a Bed, These idiots are in love and don't realise it basically, Timelines are weird and honestly i didn't think about it too much, Verona
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22923247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marianne_Dashwood/pseuds/Marianne_Dashwood
Summary: A short work trip to the city of Verona should be no trouble at all for Jon. That is, until it turns out Martin is to accompany him, and suddenly all of Jon's repressed feelings for his coworker come rushing to the surface.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 25
Kudos: 240





	in fair verona

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wollstoncrafts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wollstoncrafts/gifts).



> This is, straight up the fluffiest thing I've ever written, and it was so much fun!! This was written for the Magnus Writers Valentines Day fic exchange! My prompt was Jonmartin on a roadtrip through Italy with the following requests - A Vespa, the Juliet balcony, sharing an ice cream, and with some kind of Gertrude/Agnes, and 100% no angst! Seeing as I normally write angsty stuff, this was super cool to write something out of my comfort zone and I hope that my giftee enjoys what I've written!!
> 
> This fic wouldn't have been half as good if it wasn't for the valuable help of the discord (hey!! thank you!!!) and the wonderful and amazing @dewdropstar/flashfiremoon on ao3, for helping me out with dialogue, pacing and ice cream crimes, youre awesome <3 <3 <3
> 
> my tumblr is marianne-dash-wood, and my twitter is MJDashwood, come say hi!

Contrary to perhaps everything that his coworkers, his ex-girlfriend, and his creepy overbearing boss think, Jon Sims is no fool. Yes, he doesn't always remember to eat. And yes, there was that incident with the lamp that overheated and meant he had to go to A&E at four in the morning, but he isn’t, in fact, a complete moron. 

So, for the second time, in so many hours, he finds himself cursing Timothy Stoker. Because, he  _ knows  _ that he asked Tim to book them two seperate rooms at the hotel, and what is before them is most certainly not. It’s a small room, cosy, with exposed brick and a small balcony overlooking the plaza. There is a beautiful view of the city of Verona, sparkling and shining in the early afternoon. Waves of heat curl up from stone pavements, permeating this room even with the cool stone and the fan above the bed. The bed. As in,  _ bed _ , singular. 

To make matters worse, it is clearly some sort of honeymoon suite, and Jon knows it isn’t the heat that is making his face flush. 

“Um.” Martin says, the thump of his bag hitting the floor jolting Jon out of his mild internal panic. “This is -”

“Our room, yes.” Jon says, gritting his teeth. “I’m going to fire Tim.”

Martin chuckles nervously. “I don’t, uh, I don’t think you have the authority to do that.”

Jon takes his bag and wanders further into the room, poking his head into the bathroom to give it a cursory glance. “I’ll ask Gertrude, then.”

“Good luck with that,” Martin replies, a hesitant smile on his face as he plays with the jacket slung over his arm. “How do you… how do you want to divvy this up then?” 

He looks at Jon, hopeful and wistful and guilty all at once, and Jon feels his face burn as he quickly turns away. 

“I would rather not think about it right now, if I'm being perfectly honest with you, Martin.” And then, because the tension between them is somehow thicker than the hot June air, Jon feels the need to add; “At least, not until I’ve had a shower and somewhat recovered from travelling.”

“Right,” Martin says, his voice squeaking, just a little. “Of course!”

Jon tries not to think about Martin’s voice, or his smile, or any part of him really, as he climbs into the shower. It helps a lot, the gentle cool of the water. Travelling hadn’t been as awful as he had expected it to be, but, he still hates it, and the patterning of the water at least gives him a moment to press his head against the wet glass and try to work out how exactly he’s got in this situation. 

A conference, that’s all it was supposed to be. A meeting with some of the Institutes counterparts in other countries, with some of it’s more continental backers, and a chance to actually get out of the Archives for once. It had been Elias that suggested he go, and that was possibly Jon’s first mistake. He hadn’t seen the need, not since Getrude, the actual Head Archivist was already booked to attend. But Elias had said that it was important he attend, familiarise himself with some of the Institutes contacts, and besides, it was an all-expense paid trip to Italy. And Jon could really do with a holiday. 

The problem, then, was that Martin was to accompany him. This wasn’t so much a problem as it was a terrible, awful, no-good situation, because,  _ because _ , Basira and the others might not know it, but he did keep up with the office gossip, thank you very much. And he knew that Martin had had… certain feelings. Towards him. That was, a thing that had happened. 

Key thing being  _ had happened _ . Because Jon was sure that Martin didn’t like him  _ like that _ , anymore. Because Martin had been seconded to work at the Lukas estate for the last few months, and they had barely seen each other, and when he came back, he was still friendly to Jon, but Jon could no longer see any evidence of anything deeper than that. 

And that would have been fine, totally fine, if Jon hadn’t been an idiot and gone and caught feelings right back. 

_ Stupid.  _ Jon thinks, water trickling through his hair as he turns off the shower and steps out. Of course it would be like this, that Jon would go and get a stupid  _ crush  _ just as his crush got over his own feelings. And now they had to share a hotel room. A  _ bed. _

Jon honestly couldn't remember when his feelings for Martin had changed from irritating coworker to friend, and it was even harder to pinpoint the moment that Martin’s smiles stirred butterflies in his stomach, or when his gentle tones of concern caused Jon’s cheeks to flush embarrassingly red. He has never been good at crushes, and this one is no different. Like the others, he assumed that it would simply go away on its own, as his crushes were wont to do. It hadn’t happened yet. 

It was far easier to pinpoint the moment that this trip went to pieces on him. They had managed through the early morning flight, sleepily lugging their way through Terminal 5, Jon carefully cradling a black coffee while Martin happily talked about the various sights of Verona, despite Jon’s insistence  _ that this isn’t a sightseeing trip, Martin!  _ Martin just smiled at him, then, not the wince and immediate silence that might have come a few years ago. 

Martin had quietened when they got on the plane, and Jon was sure that Martin still felt the phantom grip that Jon had on his arm as they took off. 

_ I don’t like flying,  _ Jon explained then, embarrassed. But Martin had just smiled at him,  _ again _ , and then fell asleep on Jon’s shoulder, and Jon didn’t know what that  _ meant _ . It was nice, he reluctantly admitted to himself, when they had to disembark and he felt the absence of Martin’s soft warmth like ice to his chest. 

No, that wasn’t a problem. At most, it was simply confusing, and unfair, because Martin didn’t have any right to do that while Jon was trying to get over his annoyingly complicated feelings. No, the problem started when they wheeled their bags to the car rental place that Tim had told them to go to, and found themselves presented with a Vespa. 

Jon had cursed Tim, wondering why he had ever let the man book this trip using Jon’s drivers license, where his ability to drive a motorcycle was plain to see. 

Still, the wind was nice as they sped through the hot streets of the city, and Martin’s arms were warm around his waist, and he tried not to think about Martin’s expression when he explained that he could ride a motorcycle. Surprised and shocked, of course, but there was a hunger, a desire to probe deeper into Jon’s embarrassing University life and goddamnit, Jon wanted to tell him. Jon wants to tell him a lot of things. A lot of things that would make this trip excruciatingly awkward. 

Jon groans in frustration, running a hand over his face. Then, he nearly jumps out of his skin as there is a knock on the door. 

“Jon?” Martin’s voice asks, “Are you okay in there?”

“Fine!” Jon says, a bit too quickly. “Completely fine!”

Just a few days. Just a few days, and he would be back at home, getting over his crush as quickly as he could so he and Martin could go back to being friendly co-workers, with no awkwardness between them, whatsoever. 

It was a foolproof plan. 

Unfortunately for Jon, he is that fool. 

* * *

It’s an easy decision to go out for dinner, when the other option is to sit in this small room with the romantic lighting and one bed and definitely not enough space. 

So they stroll through the late afternoon streets, almost too close for friends but achingly far compared to the legions of couples that make up the majority of people out at this time. They leave the small winding streets filled with tiny shops stuffed with pictures of balconies and ice cream. It’s a tourist trap and history wrapped in cobblestone and smiling vendors, and Jon is wishing he brought a t-shirt rather than simply rolling up his shirt sleeves. Martin is next to him, holding a small guidebook in his hand and spouting off random facts that Jon almost wishes he found annoying rather than endearing. 

Eventually, they walk through a tiny back street that looks both ancient and new at the same time, and enter into the Piazza dei Signori. The bell tower blocks out the sun, casting shadows over the restaurants and cafes that sprawl over the square. Couples take photos by the arch, by the sun-kissed bricks of the houses that surround the square, by the carved statue of Dante.

Martin gasps quietly, reaching to get his phone out. 

“Don’t tell me you hold him in as high a regard as you do Keats.” Jon says, a lightness to his tone that even he doesn’t immediately recognise.

“Well…” Martin says, shrugging slightly. “He was a very influential poet. But for him… I guess I always liked his ideas behind the poems more than the actual words themselves.”

“His opinions of hell and purgatory?” Jon asks, frowning, “Wouldn’t have expected that to catch your interest.”

Martin shakes his head. “No, not so much that.”

“What, then?”

Martin’s cheeks colour, and he looks away. “You’ll laugh, Jon.”

That hurts more than Martin intended and Jon expected, and Jon steps back into Martin’s field of view. 

“I’d like to know. If, ah, you would be willing to share.”

“His love,” Martin says, all in one breath. “He was in love with this woman named Beatrice, and, well, they only met twice through their entire lives, and he spent his whole life loving her, even though she married someone else and died young. He dedicated so much of his poetry, his life’s work to her, and she probably never even knew that she loved him.”

“She must have been rather oblivious, then,” Jon says, quietly, “To not notice how much he loved her.”

“He never told her,” Martin says, “It was, a, an unrequited love born of admiration and secrecy, rather than passion. He didn’t have to tell her. He just had to love her.”

“It seems rather lonely.” Jon remarks.

“It is.” Martin murmurs, maybe says, but his words are so quiet that Jon isn’t sure he heard him right, and even then, he can feel Martin’s gaze on him. In lieu of actually meeting his eyes, Jon casts around wildly for something to distract him. 

It’s not long before he finds it, and all thoughts of Dante and his blind love are banished from his mind.

“Martin.” He says, low and slightly urgent. “Is that who I think it is?”

“What?” Martin says, and he turns to look where Jon is staring, and his jaw drops. “I-I think that is…”

Across the square, tucked into a small cafe, one enormous gelato between them, sits their boss, Gertrude, and across from her, holding her hand in a way that is definitely not professional in any way, shape or form, is…

“Is that Agnes Montague?” Jon asks again, blinking as if that would make the sight in front of him disappear. 

“I thought they hated each other.” Martin says. 

“Apparently not.” Jon replies, as they watch the older woman lift a spoon to Agnes’ mouth, in a romantic gesture that feels far too intimate for them to watch. And yet, he cannot seem to look away. 

That is, until, a large hand falls on his shoulder and he and Martin both yelp in surprise.

"I was wondering when I would see you two.”

They turn in unison, quick and alarmed, Martin speaking first, “ _ Micheal _ ?”

“Wh- What are you doing here?” Jon asks.

Micheal Shelley leans back on his heels, his hands raised as if to say “I come in peace.”

“Keeping an eye on my boss, same as you.” He says, unhelpfully. “And the conference too, I suppose.”

He laughs then, and it is such a distinctive laugh that Jon chances a glance behind them to make sure that Gertrude and her partner haven’t noticed them. At this, Micheal pulls them behind the statue, out of sight.

“Now, you aren’t going to ruin this for them, are you?” He says, with a look that could almost be described as murderous if it wasn’t for his face-breaking smile. Scratch that, Jon feared for his life the longer that smile remained. 

“Why on earth would we do that?” Martin asks.

“Elias.” Micheal says, by lieu of an actual explanation, and somehow looks even more delighted at Jon’s involuntary scowl.

“How long has this even been going on?” Jon asks, glancing around the statue again, an irrational part of him worrying that Elias was going to step out as well, most likely with someone equally incomprehensible on his arm. 

“Oh,  _ years _ ,” Micheal waves his hand causally, “Frankly, it's more of a surprise that you don’t know at this point. More often than not, these ‘conferences’ are just excuses to see each other. Elias probably wouldn’t even care, but I think part of it is the thrill of it, you know? Sneaking around behind his back.”

Micheal, for some reason, chooses this moment to wink at Martin, and his face turns an adorable shade of pink, and oh god, now Micheal is looking at him with an inscrutable look but it can’t mean anything good. 

“She is a Montague, and this is Verona after all.” Micheal finishes, his smile widening at his joke.

Martin twists his fingers together, sighs, “I can’t believe it.”

Jon takes another look, to where the couple have now taken their leave of the restaurant and Agnes is pressing the older woman against a wall of a side alley, and immediately wishes he didn’t. He’s happy for them, but he didn’t want to see his boss in that kind of position. Or any position of that nature, really.

“I can.” He says, dryly. “Does this mean we came all the way out here for nothing?”

“Depends on what you count as nothing.” Micheal says. 

“Wait,” Martin says, “What are  _ you  _ doing here?”

Micheal smiles “My job.”

“As enlightening as ever, Micheal.” Jon replies, sighing. “Well, we aren’t going to tell Elias. You can reassure Gertrude of that.”

“Who says I’m here for Gertrude?” Micheal asks, flashing a blinding smile at both of them, before turning and striding towards a dark-haired man next to a motorcycle. 

“Is that-?” Martin asks, but Jon cuts him off.

“Don’t.” He says, tiredly. “I don’t want any more shocks like that tonight. I don’t think my heart could take it.”

“Right,” Martin says, “Of, of course.”

He peers around the statue, and Martin’s face relaxes slightly. “They’ve moved on. No chance of bumping into our boss on a date.”

“Thank god.”

There is a moment of awkward silence, as the matter takes it’s time to cement itself into their reality. The idea of Gertrude dating is about as strange to Jon as imagining his grandmother dating, and that is really something he doesn’t want to think about. 

God, this trip is turning into a long list of things he doesn’t want to think about. 

“It seems this is the city of star-crossed lovers.” Jon says, quiet, more so to himself than to Martin. Even still, he hears Martin let out a small noise of surprise, and turns to find his cheeks and the tips of his ears pink. 

“S-sorry!” Martin says, “I thought you said something-”

“It was nothing!” Jon says quickly, and inwardly groans at how that makes them both lapse into another uncomfortable pause. 

“What…” Martin stops, clears his throat, “What do we do now?”

Jon thinks for a moment. “Take advantage of the Institute funded holiday, I would assume. Seems like your guidebook is going to come in useful after all, Martin.”

He doesn’t have to look to see how Martin practically lights up at that, ignores how the simple act of making Martin do that in turn makes his chest warm and contented, like a lazy cat. “You really mean that, Jon?”

“You’ve already made an excellent guide so far,” Jon says, “I’ll leave it to you.”

Martin doesn’t wait for Jon to finish talking before the guidebook is in his hands. “Well, it’s only a few minutes walk to  _ Casa di Giulietta _ , Juliet’s house, and it’ll be closing soon so there probably won’t be that many tourists…”

Jon watches Martin as he talks excitedly and animatedly, in the way that he has only seen from Martin a few times. He cannot help but admire how it makes his eyes shine, how his words get clearer and the confidence creeps into his face and his posture. It’s a good look on him, self-assurance, and it’s easy to listen to him, and it’s easy to watch the way his mouth shapes the Italian with a oft-practiced ease, and even easier for Jon’s mind to imagine the ways that mouth might be otherwise occupied. 

He must have made some kind of expression at that, at that rare and fleeting thought, because Martin stops, and puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“Are you alright, Jon? If you’re tired, we don’t have to do it now. We can eat and go back to the hotel, I don’t mind.”

“No.” Jon says, firmly, wrestling with his imagination as one would a rather slippery eel. “No, I’m fine, Martin. We can go now.”

And, oh, Jon would agree to anything at this moment if it made Martin smile like that again. 

* * *

As Martin had predicted, the place was a lot quieter as it came closer to closing than if they had tried to come earlier. Tattered and frayed paper, messages from years and days past flutter on the walls in the early evening wind, broken wings of longing stuck to the wall with anything to hand. Jon resits the urge to reach out and touch them, to read the same message repeated over and over again over the years, in hundreds of different languages. 

_ Lady Juliet, help me in love, do I stay or do I go, help me love him, help him love me, give me a happy ending.  _

“The balcony’s closing soon.” Martin’s voice startles him out of his thoughts. “Do you want to go up?”

“No.” He says, after considering it, “Go up without me. I want to have a look around down here first.”

Martin smiles, and says, “See you in a bit then!”, before hurrying off the the back of the queue, disappearing into the house. 

Jon wanders over to a bench, just out of the sun’s dying rays. The stone is warm, and the breeze ruffles his hair and the papers beside him. Unwritten letters to Juliet, asking for her help. How many people have stood here since the house was built; hundreds of years, hundreds of thousands of lovers, all hoping for luck. Jon doubted there was any left for him. 

There’s a couple a few feet away from him, taking turns to scratch their initials into the wall with a rock. An older lady, with dark wiry hair and an arm full of letters, passes them, offers them a fond smile as she reaches towards the walls, finding the spots where letters are tucked, handling them with a care that exudes years of experience. She slowly makes her way towards him, and seeing him, smiles, offering a blank paper and a pen. 

“Oh no,” Jon says, immediately reddening, “I’m not, I don’t need… no,  _ grazie signora.” _

He gestures towards the building, but she offers it again. 

“I know that look.” She says, in a thick italian accent. “I saw you and… your partner, correct?”

“I, no, we aren’t, I’m not,” Jon splutters, wondering how he ever ended up so incoherent, before taking a breath and trying to steady himself. “We aren’t together.”

“Then maybe Juliet can help you?” She offers the paper again, and with a slightly desperate air, he glances towards the house, hoping against hope that Martin can come out and… well, not save him, because then his appearance may only exacerbate the situation, but, then at least he might not have to navigate this situation alone.

Martin isn’t visible through the glass of the museum doors, so Jon looks up, towards the balcony, and well. He is barely aware of his sharp inhale through his nose, the embarrassing way he must simply stop and stare, because really there is nothing else for him to do. 

At the balcony, framed in the sunset, soft oranges and yellow breaking over his face like a veil, stands Martin. From here, his hair shines vibrant and golden, a halo around his head, the light casting shadows as wings behind him. It does not matter that Jon stands in the shade, then, because it is as if he is standing in the bright light of noon. Then Martin turns, and waves, and  _ smiles _ , and oh, the soft light turns dazzling, and Jon would stare into a thousand suns to see him smile like this again. The line comes to his mind unbidden and he is both glad and hateful of the years doing Drama with Georgie, because it slips out of his mouth in a breath, uncaught and unchecked.

“But soft,” He murmurs, “What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east…”

He bites his lip then, because Martin is looking down on him curiously, and he must look like a right idiot, staring up at him with a look that he can only suspect is awestruck, murmuring Shakespere to himself. 

“Are you alright, Jon?” Martin calls down.

“I’m fine!” He replies. “‘Just thinking.” And then, because he can’t stop his mouth, “Good view from up there?”

“Depends on where I’m looking,” Martin smiles. “But it’s a lovely view.”

He points, beyond the house and to the street. “I can see a gelato shop that’s still open, do you want to head there after this?” 

Jon shrugs, nods, “Can’t say no to proper Italian ice cream, can I?”

Martin grins again, and it’s the last piece of light before the sun dips behind the houses and entirely obscures itself in favour of the envious moon. 

Beside him, the woman snorts, presses a paper into his hand, and moves on, without a care for his spluttering protests. She’s probably seen it all before, and Jon doesn’t need her expression, or Georgie’s voice in his head to let him know that he has got it bad. 

Screw the weekend. If he manages to survive this evening, it will be incredible. 

* * *

“You’re a criminal” Martin says, staring at him in horror, “An absolute criminal, you have committed food crimes, I can’t believe you.”

Jon stares down at his gelato, cocking his head slightly, before looking up at Martin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What is  _ that?!”  _ Martin exclaims, pointing at the spoonful of cold mush in Jon’s hand.

“It’s melon and blueberry and chocolate ice cream,” Jon says, “Oh, and caramel sauce as well.”

“You are a heathen,” Martin says, shaking his head and taking a bite from his own ice cream, scoops of completely plain chocolate piled in a cone. “I can’t believe you’ve done this, Jon.”

“Oh, so this is where you draw the line?” Jon asks, taking another mouthful of the ice cream concoction. “Not the years of late nights, or the criticism, but the ice cream?”

“You have to draw a line somewhere!” Martin says, waving his arms about in a way that is terribly endearing, “And the abomination that is your ice cream is that line.”

Jon snorts. “You’re acting like I’ve personally offended you.”

“This is it,” Martin says, smiling dryly, “We can never be friends again, Jon. You commit too many ice cream crimes.”

“If you think it’s so bad, why don’t you try it first and make up your mind?” Jon says, and offers his cup to Martin. Martin looks mildly dubious, but Jon makes a spoonful and offers it to Martin. 

Martin stops at the end of the street, a small corner where the light drips from the lamppost and the gentle breeze rustles through the flags and trees of the city. 

Instead of taking the spoon from his hand, Martin leans down and takes a mouthful straight from the spoon, close enough that he felt Martin’s breath, cooled by his own ice cream, on his fingers. 

He doesn’t know why that’s so intimate, why this simple act makes his cheeks grow hot and warmth blooms in his chest. When he is able to focus on Martin again, he finds that Martin is similarly pink, blinking rapidly. 

“Oh, I-” Martin stammers, “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable -”

“No, you didn’t, I,” Jon swallows. Martin is still far too close, “Did you like it?”

Martin laughs, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, “Surprisingly? I think I did. The melon really brought out the caramel.”

He laughs, and Jon laughs too, but he doesnt pull away, and Martin doesn’t either, and so they are pressed close together under the yellow light of the street lamp.

“Martin,” Jon says, all at once and filled with a sudden bravery, but the moment Martin turns to look at him, it all fades again.

“Yes, Jon?”

“You’ve…” Jon swallows, “You’ve got chocolate. On your chin.”

“I do?” Martin reaches up and scrubs at the wrong side of his face. “Did I get it?”

“No,” Jon says, tentatively reaching out a hand “May, may I…?”

Martin opens and closes his mouth, and no words come out, but he nods, jerkily, once. 

Carefully, Jon wipes his thumb over the soft skin of Martin’s face. The stain removes itself quickly, but Jon finds himself unable to stop his hand from resting here, gently cupping Martin’s cheek in the soft evening light.

It’s awfully, terribly romantic, and if Jon was a braver man, he would lean in and kiss Martin right then and there. 

Martin is that braver man. There is a beat when he looks down at Jon, and his eyes are full of an emotion that Jon cannot quite figure out, and his mouth moves and forms words that only just about make it into Jon’s brain. 

“Can I… Can I kiss you?” He asks, fear and excitement in one slow breah. 

Jon’s brain, for lack of a better term, short-circuits. Words fail, and instead he pushes himself up, up onto his toes and into Martin, mouths meeting inelegantly. It’s nothing like he imagined kissing Martin would be like. His lips are chapped and raw from his worrying them, and he jolts slightly, taken by surprise. He tastes like caramel and blueberries and melon and chocolate and  _ Martin. _ Tea and the slight dust of old books and ginger biscuits. All falls away in this one perfectly imperfect moment. 

When they pull apart, carefully, testing the uncharted waters, Martin’s hand is holding Jon’s face, and Jon has never felt as safe as he does, cradled in Martin’s grip. 

“I don’t think,” Jon says, soft, licking his lips as he looks up at Martin’s expression that is somehow still surprised at this turn of events, “I don’t think the single bed is going to be as much of a problem, anymore. If you’re, ah, amenable, that is.”

Martin’s face breaks into a smile, and Jon did that, he made Martin smile like that, and he can’t quite believe that this isn’t a dream. Martin smiles at him, and he doesn’t say a word, only kisses Jon again with a lightness that Jon didn’t think was possible. He knows that he has never seen anything as beautiful as the way that Martin looks at him then.

Martin smiles, haloed in the light of the moon and the city behind them, true beauty in the eye of the beholder, and this, this is what poets write sonnets about. 

* * *

_ Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! _

_ For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night _  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment/kudos if you enjoyed!! Thank you so much for reading :D


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